May 19.
Along our entire front, almost daily, the long roll is sounded, and the ground jarred by the dull rumble of cannonade. The little attention paid to these skirmishes, where we lose from fifty to one hundred men, illustrates the magnitude of the war.
We feel the earth vibrate, and look inquiringly into the office of the telegraph which accompanies every corps.
"It is on Buell's center, or on Grant's right," the operator replies.
If it does not become rapid and prolonged, no further questions are asked. At night, awakened by the sharp rattle of musketry, we raise our heads, listen for the alarm-drum, and, not hearing it, roll over in our blankets, to court again the drowsy god.
Ride out with me to the front, five miles from Halleck's head-quarters. The country is undulating and woody, with a few cotton-fields and planters' houses. The beautiful groves open into delicious vistas of green grass or rolling wheat; luxuriant flowers perfume the vernal air, and the rich foliage already seems to display—
——"The tintings and the fingerings of June,
As she blossoms into beauty and sings her Summer tune!"
Here is a deserted camp of a division which has moved forward. Three or four adjacent farmers are gathering up the barrels, boxes, provisions, and other débris, left behind by the troops.
Drilling, Digging, and Skirmishing.
Here is a division on drill, advancing in line of battle, the skirmishers thrown out in front, deploying, gathering in groups, or falling on their faces at the word of command.